


Sins of the Flesh

by zaphodsgirl



Series: Forgive Me, Father [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bible-Humping, Blasphemy, I meant what I said, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, No I do not really mean Bible-thumping, Pining Castiel, Priest Castiel, you read that correctly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 04:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12148752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodsgirl/pseuds/zaphodsgirl
Summary: Father Novak can't touch the object of his desire, so he'll use his desire's object.





	Sins of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VioletHaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletHaze/gifts).



> ...for winning the Tropefest Chat bet. Shanah Tovah my darling!
> 
> Also I apologize in advance but I'm not actually sorry. *shrugs*
> 
> This fic now has art of Priest Cas by the AMAZING Busy Squirrel!!! You can find her [here](https://bs-acorns.tumblr.com/), please fawn all over her and give her treats! 
> 
> Link to the art itself is [here.](https://bs-acorns.tumblr.com/post/173468286848/father-castiel-would-like-to-see-you-in-the)

Castiel sighs as he closes the door of his room behind him, loosening the black fascia from around his waist, pulling it free and draping it over the hardback chair at his small desk. He stands before the dark walnut armoire as he removes his cassock, mindlessly thumbing each black, cloth-covered button through its hole until he can slide it off his shoulders. The garment goes onto an empty hanger, the fascia draped around its collar before being shut back into the wardrobe for the night, and Castiel sinks onto his mattress with a sigh.

He kicks off his shoes before reaching down to pull off his black socks, leaving them all on the floor. He finally reclines onto the bed in his white undershirt and boxers, such a stark contrast to the dark vestments he wears from dawn to dusk each day. There was a time when everything in his life was that way: extremes of black and white, no grey tones, no color of any kind, everything he understood and believed an absolute. The simplicity of his youth, when his faith was stronger than anything else in his life, his succor and his strength, and he couldn't wait to devote his life to God. 

He hadn't known, then, that following his chosen path would eventually lead him to something that would make him question everything about himself, make him wish his life were different, make him question his very faith. 

Castiel closes his eyes, throwing one arm over his face as the other feels underneath his pillow, caressing the Bible he keeps there, the symbol of everything that is right and wrong in his life. He pulls it out without looking, placing it on his stomach and resting a hand on it, rubbing his thumb idly over the soft leather as he lets his mind wander.

He'd known since he was a young boy that he wanted to join the priesthood, had never been tempted by anything else. He'd finished high school, gotten his theology degree, finished seminary and served his time as a deacon with unwavering devotion, never questioning his goals, never considering other choices. There had never been anything he'd wanted from life more than this.

Except.

Except now there is something else he wants entirely. Some _one_.

The book on his stomach has a comforting weight, the leather cover suffused with warmth from being beneath his pillow all day. He strokes it with his fingers, the texture smooth beneath them, supple and soft -- the way he imagines the lips of that someone will feel if he ever finds the courage to reach out and touch them. He longs to run the pad of his thumb along the lower one, cradle the jaw that holds it, then gently push that same digit into the wet crevice between those lips.

"Dean," he sighs to himself in the twilight of his austere room, imagining the way those eyes look at him as he moves closer, framing that well-loved face now in both hands, leaning in to share a single breath before he brings their lips together at last. 

He takes his arm from his face, reaches to the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it up above his navel, resting the book on the bare skin of his stomach before covering it again with both hands. The leather soft like velvet, bound by hand after being dyed a shade of green -- not exactly the right shade, but he didn't expect the one who made it to know that.

_You said your favorite color was green, didn't you, Father?_

Castiel never had a favorite color until recently.

He moves his hands off the book and slips his fingers under the waistband of his boxers, lightly caressing the skin there, pushing the elastic down just enough to free his hipbones. He traces the shape of them lightly, keeping his eyes closed, imagining his touch belongs to another. 

Castiel is inexperienced, but not naive; he knows all about the pleasures of the body, the desire that humans direct towards one another. He's just never felt them himself until recently, not until a piercing pair of green eyes through the lattice of the confessional made him forget for a moment who was the confessor and who was the penitent. He has wanted for months now to do nothing more than fall at Dean's feet, to spill his secrets, to beg for absolution at his hands. 

The weight of the vestments he wears are a constant reminder of the gravity of his office, and the only thing keeping him in check. Garments shuttered away now as he lies here on his bed, alone in the room but not in his mind. He imagines it's Dean who pushes the boxers down to the top of his thighs with one hand as he runs the fingers of the other up the shaft of his semi-hard cock. He circles the head with his thumb, before he grasps himself loosely in his right hand, bringing the other back up to the book still on his stomach, pressing his hand into the leather so lovingly worked by the one he wants.

He can't touch Dean himself, so Castiel strokes the supple skin of the cover Dean held in his hands, smoothed into place as he bound it just as securely as he bound Castiel. Soft, the way he imagines Dean's lips will feel, kneeling before him and letting them run up and down the hot skin of his shaft. Just the thought brings him to full hardness, and he groans as he tightens his fist and strokes, running his thumb through the precome weeping from the head.

In a moment of inspiration, he slides the leather book slowly down his stomach, imagines its soft caress belongs to Dean as his hands press against either side, curving it around his swollen member as he thrusts his hips against the velvety surface and whimpers.

"Oh Dean," he whispers to himself, rolling his hips into the soft leather, too dry to pretend it's a mouth. He imagines Dean's hand instead, wrapping around his heated flesh as he kneels before him, gazing up at Cas to watch his face as he pleasures him. He thrusts desperately against the cover but the movement is awkward, just as he thinks Dean would be as he touches him for the first time. He rolls instead, placing the book on the mattress beneath him, thrusting against it desperately. He no longer gives any thought to the sinfulness of anything he's doing, past caring anymore, lost in the fantasy of Dean as he moves his hips. His rigid cock slides against the soft, buttery leather of the Bible created by the object of his desire. His mind races, fantasies tripping over themselves behind his closed eyes of hands, of lips, of heated skin laid bare before him. _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ a litany repeated in his head with each thrust as he feels the heat pooling in his stomach, the muscles that coil tightly and he gasps, rolling over quickly with a cry as he strokes himself through his orgasm, hot semen pooling on his stomach as it cools. 

It's nearly full dark now, and he waits for his racing heart to calm before he gets up from the bed, stepping completely out of his boxers and pulling his soiled shirt over his head as he moves into the bathroom to shower. 

He knows he should feel shame, but can no longer associate that feeling with anything around Dean. Despite his actions of the last thirty minutes, he knows what he feels is more than lust, than base attraction. Castiel knows that he would completely alter the course of his life if only Dean would ask. His parish, his office, his faith...none of them mean anything to him anymore, but they hold him back enough that he can't act on what he wants. 

Towelling himself dry, he pads back into the dark room, dropping his towel on the floor by his soiled undergarments and climbing underneath the sheets. Too late he remembers the treasured volume as he hears it hit the floor on the other side. He turns on the single lamp on the nightstand to see the book has landed spine up, pages splayed against the floor, and he leans down to pick it up gingerly. 

A small piece of paper falls out as he does, but he takes a moment to smooth the book and close it, pressing it to his lips for a moment before placing it back beneath his pillow and reaching down to snag the paper.

_Father, I want to speak to you about something, but I don't feel comfortable doing so in the confessional._

_Would you come to my house some evening?_

_Please, Castiel._


End file.
